


Centre of a Small Space

by Raletha



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Challenge Response, Community: 30_lemons, Erotica, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sexual Content, Timeline What Timeline, warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/pseuds/Raletha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[30 Lemons] The boys take shelter from an artillery barrage. Circa 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centre of a Small Space

**Author's Note:**

> For theme #3 "The Sexuality of Terror" on the livejournal community 30_lemons.

When the shelling started, they were just passing through the gatehouse of the town's perimeter wall on foot. Quatre and Trowa had left their Gundams some six or seven miles outside the town, hidden in a forest. They'd been driving the transport trucks twenty-three hours straight, and had decided a good meal and a bed could be found discreetly here, in this little Russian town.

It was a Sunday morning; Quatre would remember that. He'd never forget the aftermath of the artillery barrage: the bodies in the rubble of the church. It was like God had thrown a tantrum and broken all his toys.

Nor would he forget the metallic ringing that followed each thunderous boom of artillery cannons. The ringing that drew into the wait for the impact, and then the impact came, and the explosion shook the earth, shook your bones and your brain and made you think you'd go mad just from the noise of it.

They took shelter in the basement of a dry goods store. Being Sunday it was closed, so they had to break in. Quatre felt guilty about this, but Trowa broke the glass on the door without hesitation and hauled Quatre in with him.

The basement had but one tiny, high window, half boarded over so only thin blades of light came in, filled with the swirling dust their footsteps had churned up. Though that was negligible compared to the dust shaken from the rafters when the next explosion came.

Quatre was grateful the boom swallowed the whimper he made. Trowa was calm as he explored the basement, seeking things to make them more comfortable or more secure. Quatre's hands shook, his fingers numb and clumsy, as he took a musty wool blanket from Trowa.

The ground quaked, and Quatre shut his eyes, clenched his teeth. Why? Why would Alliance forces be shelling this village? Was it because of them? Were they being tracked?

"Are you okay?" Trowa asked him.

"Yeah," Quatre said.

The boys settled in the centre of the small space, barricaded with barrels and crates, padded with blankets and empty sacks.

The barrage continued, raining dust from the rafters upon them.

Quatre hunched up, knees under his chin, head tilted to press his closed eyes to his knees. "Stop it," he whispered with each quaking boom. He tried to will it to stop, tried to bend reality with his mind. Futile, yes. But he tried until his head started to pound even louder than the shells.

"Are you gay?" Trowa asked in the next silence.

Quatre's head jerked up. "What?" He was pretty sure Trowa had asked 'are you okay,' again, but it had sounded more like something else. Something personal.

Trowa was sitting, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, regarding Quatre seriously. "I asked you if you were _gay_."

Oh.

It was the personal question. "Why?" Why would anyone ask such a thing in a situation like this? It was too abrupt and direct, even for Trowa.

"I'd been wondering. If you were."

"Why?" Quatre asked. There was an edge to his voice; he hoped it didn't sound like impending hysteria. He cringed when another boom and metal ringing came.

Trowa spoke more loudly, his words only just audible. "I thought, maybe, you had a crush on me."

"What?"

Trowa smiled, a little. "The way you look at me." He shrugged.

"Crap," Quatre said and lowered his head again. His heart raced and he was sweating. Not good sweating either, but the horrible stinking sweat of anxiety. He hadn't meant to be obvious.

"It's okay," Trowa said. "I don't mind."

"Trowa," Quatre groaned. "I really don't want to talk about this."

"We don't have to talk, but I--" Trowa said, the rest of whatever he said swallowed by sound. This time closer.

Quatre coughed, lifted his head, and looked at Trowa through the gloomy swirling dust. "I didn't hear you," he said.

"We don't have to talk, but I wanted you to know I knew."

"Why?" Quatre hugged his legs harder and blinked grit from his eyes as he peered at his companion; the dust was making his eyes water.

Trowa gave him a queer little smile. A smile Quatre didn't understand, but one that made his heart beat even faster than the shelling prompted.

"Why, Trowa?" he asked again.

Then Trowa leaned over and kissed him. Softly, so softly it made Quatre ache inside, the ache so solid, lodged in his chest, he couldn't breathe around it.

Another shell, and Quatre shrank back, pulling away from Trowa. But Trowa followed him. "It's okay," he said to Quatre and kissed him again.

Quatre felt his lips tense against Trowa. Fear seized up in his limbs, fought with whatever attraction he had for Trowa. This wasn't right. Was it? People were dying up there.

"It's okay," Trowa repeated, and touched Quatre, rubbed his arm from his wrist to his shoulder. "We're safe here."

Nodding, Quatre gulped a breath, and Trowa smiled, leaned back in to kiss, this time with his lips parted. His tongue slid along the seam of Quatre's mouth. When Quatre didn't open for him, he brought a hand to Quatre's jaw, gripped his chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulled down with his thumb, opening Quatre's closed mouth, prying between his lips with his tongue, more forceful now.

This time when Quatre whimpered, it wasn't because of fear. Not exactly. The fear was there, but morphed into not fear for his life, but fear of novelty and taboo and of things changing with Trowa.

"Quatre," Trowa said, and moved back so he could pull Quatre's arms from their hugging of his legs.

Still bent at the knee, Quatre's legs fell apart, and Trowa moved between their spread, unfolding his own legs to lie against Quatre, his weight so real, his pelvis crushing hard into Quatre's. The hardness wasn't just bone, Quatre realised; heat pulsed hard to his groin too. Trowa kissed his throat and rolled his hips against Quatre. Quatre gasped and wrapped his arms about Trowa's shoulders, clung to Trowa as Trowa rocked against him. That felt good; it eased the ache.

Quatre started moving too, complement to Trowa. Teasing, rough friction, their bodies pressed together imperfectly, so hot, so hard -- but so insufficient. The shelling was lost in the roar of blood and lust in Quatre's head, under his skin.

He reached for the centre of that lust, pushing his hands impatiently between their bodies. Trowa arched up to make room, exhaled his moan into Quatre, into another open mouthed kiss.

Quatre unfastened his belt, zipper, and button, unsnapped the fly of his boxers, pulled his erection out into the heated air between them, and then reached for Trowa. His fingers fought with the tight buttons of Trowa's fly. Thick brass and stiff denim strained by the swelling flesh behind them. "Yeah," Trowa whispered against his mouth between kisses, wrapped his hand around Quatre's naked cock, and then asked in turn, "Touch me too?"

Quatre's hand freed Trowa's cock, and held him, just as Trowa was holding him. Their kiss slowed and eased apart. Both breathed heavily, and the dust tickled in Quatre's throat and his nose, but he didn't sneeze or cough.

In the mote filled shards of light, Quatre looked into Trowa's eyes. Dust glimmered between them, falling into Trowa's eyelashes and smearing in the fluid of Quatre's eyes, skewing and blurring his view of Trowa. Quatre read nothing particular in Trowa's eyes, but he had little chance to consider it, what it might mean or not mean, for Trowa began to move his hand, tightened his grip around Quatre and pumped his fist.

It would not be the best handjob Trowa ever gave him; they were both clumsy with urgency and inexperience. Quatre learned later that Trowa had little more experience than he did, and what experience Trowa did possess had been with a woman, a prostitute that had been bought for him when he was thirteen -- to make him into a man. Trowa said later, with a soft laugh, he had remained a boy that night.

The lingering adrenaline of fear kept Quatre from coming quickly. He stroked Trowa to orgasm first. He liked the soft little grunts Trowa made when he came, and he liked the hot splash of Trowa's semen on his hand, some landed on his dick too. Trowa's hand slicked by Trowa's ejaculate brought him off several minutes later. Quatre liked all of it.

Into the musty wool blankets, they sank down together, sweat and dust and semen staining their skin and their clothes. It took Quatre several minutes more, maybe a half hour, to realise they lay in absolute silence now. The shelling had stopped.

 **the end**


End file.
